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Monographs  \ 


William   Frederick  Allen 


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MONOGRAPHS 


MONOGRAPHS 


BY 


WILLIAM    FREDERICK    ALLEN 


Boston 

The  Four  Seas  Company 

1919 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
The  Four  Seas  Company 


Oj 


Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
The    Four    Seas   Press 


To 
S.    A. 

WITH   MEMORIES 


470S3i 


CONTENTS 

HYACINTHUS  - 

SEERS  OF  VISION 

THE   STOKER  

NO    CROSS       

TRINITAS  

MY   FATHERLAND  

FIFTY  YEARS  HENCE 

BEWILDERMENT  

FOR  YOU  

THE  GARDEN  BUILDER 

THE   UNASLEEP     ..         

AVE  IMPERATOR!  

GOOD  THOUGHT    

THE  FINAL  JUDGMENT 

THE  BIG  SMASH 

SECOND  FIDDLES 

A  NEW  ENGLAND  MEETING  HOUSE 

THE  PIPE         

"OMNIA  MAJOREM  DEI  GLORIAM" 

ALL  SAINTS'  SAY 

MIDNIGHT   IN   NEW  YORK   .. 
THE  DEATH  OF  OLD  GERMANY  „ 

ENGLAND         

POET  TO  WOMAN 

LONDON  FOG  

SIMPLICITY  

WINTER  TWILIGHT  IN  PRAGUE  .. 

THESE    DAYS  

YOU  WHO  ARE  DEAD 

PATRIOTISM  

"GONE  WEST"         

CHUCKED         

CONDOLENCE  

AMERICA  

KING  GEORGE         

INTERRUPTED         

DEATH  AND  DAWN        

THE  OLD  HOUSE 

THE  LONE  CYPRESS  AT  MONTEREY 

GOD'S    ANTHOLOGY       

IN  FLORIDA 

FROM  MY  DORMER  WINDOW      .. 

RIPE  GRAPES  

NUNC    DIMITTIS 

POST  BELLUM         

THE  FAUN       

EVENING  IN  A  HOSPITAL      .. 

THE  HOME  COMING       

THE  GRAY  DAY 


MONOGRAPHS 


HYACINTHUS 


Who  sports  with  the  gods  must  die! 

Woe,  oh  woe! 

Who  prays  for  the  wings  must  fly; 

Fate  wills  so. 

Who  mocks  at  the  loving  friend 

Hath  signed  his  death. 

He  comes  to  the  silent  end 

Who  scorns  love's  breath ! 

Thou,  Hyacinthus,  thou 

Didst  spurn  thy  friend! 

Now,  Phoebus  playmate,  now 

What  is  thine  end? 

The  stricken  Zephry  weeps 

Where  thy  white  body  sleeps ; 

The  Sun-god  lingers  near 

And  drops  a  shining  tear. 

Where  art  thou 

Fair  pouter  now  ? 

In  the  shades  where  lovers  wait 

Message  from  the  loved  one's  gate — 

Dead — alone. 


-A  ♦wind*  tossed  stone 
Hath  laid  thee  low ! 
Phoebus'  kiss  may  not  awake 
Nor  thy  beauty's  silence 
Poor  boyf air,  no  ! 
But  still  a  flower  soft  in  name 
Sighs  why  Hyacinthus  came; 
The  Zephry  moans 
Where  blood-kissed  stones 
Have  stained  thy  hair. 
The  morning  air 

Is  sad  with  Phoebus'  long-drawn  sighs  ; 
And  when  the  pensive  daylight  dies 
He  dreams  on  thee. 
Divinity 

Hath  kept  thee  in  his  heart  and  soul; 
His  melodies  have  sung  thy  dole. 
So  what's  amiss 

To  die  when  Phoebus  loves  thee  best? 
And  earth  bears  on  her  fragrant  breast 
Thy  blood  in  flower? 
The  high  god's  kiss 
Was  thine,  an  hour. 

So  thou  art  blessed  past  grief's  annoy — 
The  god  of  gods,  hath  loved  thee,  boy ! 


[12] 


SEERS  OF  VISION 

Thou  art  a  Seer  of  Vision — thou — and  thou ! 

And  I  am  run  to  kiss  ye — brothers  all ! 

My  couch  is  heaped  where  forest  pines  grow  tall — 

Where  shyest  birds  nest  on  the  thicket's  bough  ; 

And  thou  art  of  an  attic's  pinched  confine — 

And  thine  is  ermine  of  a  purple  throne — 

And  thou  doest  pray  where  altar  lights  are  thrown 

On  acolytes  bowed  in  a  decorous  line! 

Greet  ye,  my  brothers !    "For  us  creeds  unbend 

And  royal  kings  wear  homespun!     Attic  walls 

Picture  arbutus;  each  to  each  is  friend — 

And  self  same  sun  to  self -same  vision  calls ! 

We  gather  up  dead  dreams  as  diamond  dust 

And  shape  new  dreams,  the  better  for  their  death ! 

We  lisp  new  tongues,  we  voice  a  Shibboleth 

From  broken  hopes  till  new  worlds  form  their  crust! 

Each  to  his  own  domain,  his  star  of  things — 

To  dream,  till  dreams  are  Vision,  faith  is  Sight." 

Each  with  the  half -blind  eyes  made  quickened  light — 

Each  with  the  feet  grown  fast  Icarian  wings! 

Four  points  of  Vision!  Forest,  attic,  throne 

And  olden  gloried  Church!     Each  seer  a  god! 

Each  stumbling  out  a  path  the  seers  trod 

Of  us  unknowing,  to  us  loved  and  known ! 

Oh,  brothers  to  my  woods !     The  brook  has  wine 

Of  sun-dyed  summer!     Let  me  play  the  host! 

Come  thou,  and  thou,  and  thou,  The  Holy  Ghost 

Hath  signed  my  treasure  yours,  your  treasure  mine ! 


[13] 


THE   STOKER 

How  did  he  get  there? 

Who  does  he  stay  there? 

How  could  I  get  him  away? 

Fd  die  in  such  excluse  of  free  summer  air! 

I'd  die  if  my  day  were  his  Pluto's  day! 

There's  something  about  him  not  human! 

Is  he  flesh,  as  I'm  flesh,  born  as  I  am,  of  woman? 

Is  he  Fafner  or  Titan?     Has  Thor 

Left  Thorlings  on  earth  ?     He's  iron  to  the  core — 

A  god — but,  My  God,  such  a  face! 

'Tis  a  brute's !    Is  he  one  of  my  race 

Or  shoot  of  a  planet  swung  out  of  space 

And  dropping  its  left  overs  on  this  terrene? 

And  how  could  I  help  him.?     A  boon 

To  him  Casey's  corner  saloon — 

The  loud-natured  gaff  of  his  kind. 

A  Sampson  in  strength,  but  a  child  in  his  mind — 

His  mien  no  birth-mark  my  mien. 

Reason  him  ?     No !     Pity  him  ?     Explain  him  ?     No ! 

Yet  his  is  one  part  of  the  voice  that  shouts  "Go !" 

When  this  creature  of  science  sweeps  in  her  pride 

For  a  caprice  of  whim 

Like  Dian  turned  bride. 

He's  something  to  me ;  I'm  nothing  to  him ; 

If  I  love  him,  'tis  with  head,  not  with  heart; 

And  head  without  heart  is  the  scurviest  part; 

His  look  fends  thought  from  my  speech. 

Why  show  him  pomegranates  he  never  can  reach? 

The  dried  fruit  he  knows ;  why  harrow  and  teach 

Till  his  taste  grows,  and  orchards  with  never  a  peach 

[14] 


For  his  eating ! 

Alas,  there's  no  platform  of  meeting! 
Sit  him  down  to  a  symphony ;  some  blotch  of  a  tune 
Abortion  of  music,  his  tear  or  guffaw. 
There's  no  quick  prescription  of  man-cozened  law 
To  bid  an  oaf  thrill  at  the  first  rose  of  June 
And  beauty's  a  magic  ne'er  to  be  seen 
But  by  the  beauty  born. 

I'm  out  again;  back  to  the  earth's  bliss  of  green. 
He  stays  there — forlorn? 

Or  happier  than  I  am :  I  hear  him,  "That  swell 
Don't  know  he's  a-livin' — a  drink  pard — oh  hell" 
And  yet  there's  a  God ;  He  made  us ;  and  I 
And  my  huge  stoker  brother  walk  'neath  the  same  sky 
Lick  up  the  same  air  in  deep  meeds  of  breath 
And  live  out  a  life  to  the  free  soil  of  death. 
And  though  I'd  fain  reason  him,  my  reason  won't  tell 
How  he  got  there ; 
Why  he  stays  there ; 
Why  he  won't  break  away 

And  live  his  full  birthright  of  sunlight  and  May. 
How  I  got  here ; 
Why  I  stay  here  ; 
Why  I  don't  break  away 

Who  knows?     And  my  stoker?     God  tell  us,  some 
day! 


[15] 


NO  CROSS 

I  bear  no  Cross — 

And  therefore  my  loss. 

Death  hath  walked  blind  for  me — 

Life  hath  smiled  kind  on  me: 

When  I  would  weep,  dry  dust  were  my  tears. 

Fate  spared  me  sorrow  for  humankinds'  biers — 

Roses  have  reft  for  me,  thorns. 

Wine  sparkled  in  deep  horns — 

And  thus,  I  bear  no  Cross, 

And  whence  my  loss? 

When  others  weep  they  read  my  tears  as  stones; 

My  banquet  paeons  chill  their  requiem  groans 

For  mankind  worse  than  dead. 

My  heart  lies  emerald-crusted,  ruby  sharp — 

The  cynic's  discord  haunts  my  spirit's  harp 

That  fain  would  sing  of  grief. 

Come  Fate,  bold  ruthless  thief — 

And  strip  mine  orchard  of  its  veinous  sweets! 

When  sorrow  next  me  greets 

Let  her  behold  me  clad  in  poverty — 

Feet  bare,  eyes  blurred  to  see 

Life's  worst;  that  I  may  clasp  some  work-worn  hand 

Whose  touch  my  fine  skin's  silk  may  not  withstand 

With  curse,  "What  hast  thou  with  me !"  Let  me  bleed 

Till  I  be  healed  of  God,  and  cry  "My  creed 

Is  mankind's  own ;  I  know,  I  bear  the  Cross — 

And  know  not  isolation's  worse  than  loss !" 


16] 


TRINITAS 

All-Father  God  is  as  the  world  at  night ; 
Hints  in  the  sky,  of  never  sleeping  suns; 
Unfathomed  currents  of  etheric  runs — 
Assumptioned  dark,  but,  certain,  molten  light, 
Omniscient  vastness !  Faith  in  stars  and  space- 
Limits  unlimited !  Deep  evolved  to  deeps ! 
Security,  that  somehow,  somewhere,  keeps 
A  tireless  vigil  of  eternal  Grace ! 
And  Christos  God  beams  as  the  rising  sun 
Who  colours  edgeless  forms  to  shapes  concrete ; 
Man  glimpses  traces  of  His  hands,  His  feet 
In  each  new  impulse  of  the  day  begun. 
The  aw  fulness  of  night  dispels  in  dew 
And  morning  freshness;  hope  enforces  sense 
To  fuller  being;  some  immortal  lens 
Defines  the  Living  God  child-born,  anew! 
But  God  the  Holy  Ghost,  like  some  ravine 
Fast  set  mid  ice-looked  hills,  gives  forth  no  sign 
Of  Deity,  nor  marks  Himself  divine 
Till  God  All  father,  Christos  God  are  seen. 
Then  fullest  silence,  incarnate  in  love 
In  truth  eternal,  shadows  visible! 
The  Triune  God  in  presence  visual 
Illumes  all  space,  Around,  Within,  Above! 


[17] 


MY  FATHERLAND 

Where  lies  it— Greater  Anglia — my  Fatherland? 

Each  reef  where  syllables  the  English  tongue ! 

Where'er  an  English  verse,  soul  born,  is  sung 

There  am  I  native !  There  my  flag,  my  strand. 

Or  Union  Jack  or  joyant  Stripes  and  Stars 

No  alien  I  b'neath  either  pennant;  mine 

The  heritage  of  Shakespeare;  Cana's  wine 

Blushes  for  me  by  far  Australia's  bars 

As  by  rock-starred  Maine;  my  brother  he 

Who  loves  my  Hawthorne  with  me ;  let  him  hail 

From  tide-hemmed  Faulkland ;  let  his  pearl-dipped  sail 

Be  set  Hawaiian  in  the  west-east  sea ! 

What  makes  the  foreigner?     He  whose  heart 

Holds  not  the  tongue  I  love ! — mine  English  right ! 

Him  I  may  whisper,  "God  give  thee  good-night" 

Is  of  my  loins  the  most  integral  part! 

My  Fatherland?     My  sun-proud  spot  of  birth? 

Each  vibrant  clod  of  English-speaking  earth? 


[18] 


FIFTY  YEARS  HENCE 

Fifty  years  hence ;  the  lad  we  plied 

To  stricken  France  with  convoys'  train — 

May  lean,  an  old  man,  'gainst  some  fence 

And  garble  dried  herbs  o'er  again 

Of  trenches,  long  syne  bearded  fields 

The  richer  for  their  crimson  bust. 

Drone  toothless  jars  of  Zeppelin  birds 

With  Anti-Christ's  black  pinions  trussed. 

Naithless,  above  his  frost  bleared  head 

Some  new  air  bastard  may  contort — 

Though  fixed  in  his  war  clouded  mind — 

The  year  when  nature  ran  distort 

With  streaming  hair,  and  palsied  scream — 

When  men  gnashed  thoughts  embowelled  in  hate. 

He  young,  changed  old ;  beheld  for  aye 

But  France  as  the  one  square  of  fate. 

Unheeded  as  he  mumbles  on 

With  gesture  of  his  long-lived  age — 

How  what  was  Prussia  griped  the  world — 

And  greened  anew  old  history's  page. 

With  feeble  pipe  he'll  shrilly  rant 

Of  France,  how  England  stemmed  the  tide — 

America  last  bared  her  arm — 

For  honours'  name  young  millions  died! 

Fifty  years  hence !  And  thus  will  speak 

These  unborn  minnows,  bred  to  rules 

We  wot  not  of ;  "These  dotards  squeak 

Like  antique  mice;  away  with  fools 

Who  mouth  a  Prussia  lest  than  least. 

Why  gnaw  dead  history's  girth  of  bones? 

[19] 


The  seas  are  free;  their  battle  brunts 

Scant  heeded  mounts  of  scarce  read  stones !' 

But  still  we  plied  the  lads  of  France 

For  that  posterity  who  seem 

A  dream  unborn;  to  whom  we'll  shape 

The  shadow  of  a  long  dead  dream. 


[20] 


BEWILDERMENT 

Submission — resignation. 

Are  these  the  vestibule  afront  the  door 

Of  life  eternal?     To  hear  Zambesi's  roar 

Nor  heed  it  with  the  loin  embued  elation 

Youth's  prompting  circles — one  mad  leaping  band 

Of  heart  plus  soul,  plus  brain,  plus  Pan? 

Am  I  grown  one  with  Christ?     Is  God's  right  hand 

Transforming  me  Saint  John  from  Caliban? 

Or  is  ambition's  fervour,  tearful  fled 

From  me  twain  Icelands'  cold  ?     Lord,  do  I  sleep 

Dropped  on  mine  eyes  the  film  of  atrophine — 

My  veins  time  sluggish  to  the  cast-off  dead 

Who  "rest  eternal — light  perpetual  keep" — 

Mere  deadwood,  hush  of  summer  fire  and  green? 


21] 


FOR  YOU 

For  you  he  fought ;  ne'er  shall  the  f  oeman's  tread 

Profane  the  violet  fragrance  of  your  dust. 

Ne'er  shall  your  grave  be  tramped  by  German  lust — 

Thus  did  he  guard  the  tryst  sleep  of  his  dead. 

Other's  hallooed,  fresh  from  their  sweetheart's  kiss — 

The  arms'  embrace,  the  heart  tuned  to  the  heart. 

God  fend  their  love !  Not  his  their  rapture's  part — 

His  was  a  shadow's  dream,  a  captured  bliss. 

And  this  his  woe :  'neath  custom's  rigid  guise — 

That  hear  "Good-Bye"  breathed  to  another's  ears — 

Beholds  another  dewed  with  vesper  tears 

And  looks  at  love  caught  in  another's  eyes. 

And  yet  was  his  a  strength,  they  scarce  could  know 

Those    quick    young    saplings;    those    whose    pulses 

burn — 
Whose  prayer  demands  their  laurel  twined  return — 
God's  victory  wrest  from  time's  most  deadly  foe. 
The  great  word,  "Home"  their  slogan ;  'neath  a  tree 
In  sacred  Flanders,  some  unconscious  Hun 
Made  free  his  soul ;  his  black  of  day  was  done — 
And  'twas  your  smile,  erst  years  his  rosemary 
For  you — for  England — yea,  for  France — His  God — 
For  soft-browed  Death!  What  now  the  mirk  of  grief? 
Peace  to  your  dust !  No  heathen  German  thief 
Dare  break  the  holy  silence  of  your  sod ! 


[22] 


THE  GARDEN  BUILDER 

He  who  sows  a  garden,  builds  for  God 

And  to  that  end  I  work !  The  trowel's  edge 

Upturns  and  digs  th'  alembic  of  the  soil 

To  His  great  glory.     Kings,  and  studded  czars 

Upraise  the  sceptre,  and  to  their  decree 

Vast  tablets  rise  in  monumental  stone 

And  rich-veined  marble;  noble  are  such  deeds 

And  he  is  worth  the  laurels  who  so  builds. 

More  worthy  he,  of  more  supreme  renown 

Who  paints  a  picture ;  he  who  carves  his  thought 

In  precious  matrix;  rifle  Daphne's  groves, 

And  crown  these  monarchs  with  the  gods'  esteem ! 

Still  greater  is  the  poet;  in  his  lines 

The  picture  paints,  the  marble  falls  in  moulds 

Of  frozen  music.     But,  the  gardener 

Surpasses  painter,  poet,  sculptor,  all; 

For  God  Almighty,  as  the  sage  hath  said 

First  made  Himself  a  garden,  in  the  times 

When  transience  lingered  with  eternity — 

And  truth,  as  yet,  knew  nought  of  falsehood's  shame. 

Thus  he  who  plants  a  tree,  resembles  God 

In  earth's  first  Eden ;  he  who  tills  the  soil 

For  beauty's  virtue,  dreams  virginity — 

Millenium  once  known,  and  ages  lost. 

No  dullard  is  the  gardener ;  his  no  pain 

Of  weary  tedium;  his  the  joy  undimmed 

Bestowed  on  those  who  plant,  and  delve  the  earth 

To  symbol  resurrection.     Hear,  ye  men, 

Give  to  the  earth  the  flower-pregnant  seeds — 

That  she  may  sing  a  joyful  stave  to  God ! 

[23] 


Make  firm  the  stripling  trees,  and  ye  shall  do 
The  golden  deeds  that  win  the  smiles  of  God! 
Perchance  the  garden-dreamer  may  restore 
The  Eden-hour  again — oh  happy  thought — 
And  sinlessness  and  truth  be  incarnate 
In  leaf,  in  flower,  and  garden  holiness! 


[24] 


THE  UNASLEEP 

For  such  as  I,  God  pray — the  Unasleep ! 

The  weary  swimmers  on  the  midnight  deep 

Of  soul-rest  and  repose! 

The  waking  throes 

Of  doubtful  half -dreams,  hinted  nightmares;  thrills 

Of  slumber  journeys  up  steep-breasted  hills — 

The  hideous  starts  to  life! 

This  is  our  doom;  the  slow  turn  of  the  knife 

The  dull  night  through 

Till  morning  dew 

As  shallow  substitute  for  Sleep ! 

Oh  well  for  those  who  wide-eyed  vigils  keep ! 

Or  well  for  those  who  chortle  as  the  swine 

In  sottish  Lethe ;  those  who  reach  the  fine 

Of  dreamless  rest! 

But  God — we  Unasleep !     The  stab  i'  the  breast 

By  every  creature  of  the  baleful  night ! 

Each  flicker  of  the  nightlamp's  restless  light; 

The  long  wail  of  the  melancholy  cat  ; 

The  chipper-chipper  of  the  evil  bat : 

The  stern  glance  of  the  cold,  imperial  moon — 

The  shuffling  step  of  some  drink-glad  buffoon 

Who  matters  in  the  silence-shrouded  street. 

The  lone  patrolman  on  his  measured  beat ; 

The  chance  pedestrian  whose  feet  resound 

In  quick-step  o'er  the  pavement-piercing  ground — 

What  maddening  staves  they  sing ! 

What  ghoulish  shapes  the  long-armed  shadows  fling 

Across  the  trappings  of  the  loud-voiced  room ! 

And  we — the  Unasleep — who  through  the  gloom 

[25] 


Half-wake,   half-sleep,   half-dream!    Who   turn   and 

toss — 
Who  yearn  for  peace,  if  but  the  tomb's  cool  moss — 
What  tortures  of  the  damned  do  we  endure! 
The  scaffold's  hempen  were  a  welcome  cure; 
The  Iron  Maid,  an  action  of  delight — 
'Gainst  these  thin  phantoms  of  the  mocking  night — 
These  dreams  that  be  no  dreams ! 
How  foolish  seem  the  stars  with  their  cheap  gleams — 
How  futile  seem  the  storms  when  they  do  chance ! 
What  were  a  lover's  kiss,  a  friend's  soft  glance? 
The  monarch's  sceptre,  dubbing  us  as  knight? 
The  purest  joy,  earth's  most  effulgent  might 
To  us,  the  cureless,  death-shunned  Unasleep? 
We  sigh  as  hapless  Henry,  or  like  him 
The  ghostly  mariner,  whose  eyes  strained  dim — 
Glared,  red  with  pain,  on  Sleep  that  fled  his  face ! 
We  pray — we  pray;  could  Mary,  with  her  grace — 
Or  Christ  Himself — could  they  but  see  our  woe — 
Then  might  they  learn  what  sorrow  man  can  know ! 
Alas,  they  sleep  above!    Their  calm  is  deep; 
And  God  and  Nature  shun  the  Unasleep ! 


[26] 


AVE    IMPERATOR! 

Hail,  vernal,  smiling  Death! 

I  will  not  have  thee  cold !  thy  smile  a  sneer 

At  man's  poor  despite!  I  will  not  paint  thee  fear 

Thou  fair  bestower  of  the  Further  Breath 

Great  God  doth  give! 

I  will  not  gasp  "I  die,"— I'll  shout  "1  live!" 

When  night's  soft  mellowing  haze  extends  the  gold 

My  sunset  boasts ! 

When  every  Rosary  Bead  last  time  is  told — 

And  every  Sanctus  Bell  last  time  is  knolled — 

I'll  gird  me  for  the  coasts 

Thy  sea  fresh  Presence  brings ! 

Who  deems  thy  voice  knife  sharp?  The  tid  that  sings ! 

The  greenwood  dark  to  poetry's  eterne 

Carols  no  sweeter  than  thy  harmony ! 

I've  heard  full  many  a  leaf  entangled  burn 

Slip  through  the  fields,  but  none  croons  staves  as  thee 

Thou  summer  of  the  spring ! 

I've  heard  thee  laugh  of  childhood's  faery  ring 

And  crack  quick  jests  as  children  spanned  thy  back 

To  run  afar  with  thee. 

Thou  art  no  ghost !  Thou  art  no  iron-tongued  rack 

As  sorry  mortals  cry  thee !    Azrael 

With  face  avert  and  dread  sword  ever  bright 

To  slay,  men  whisper  thee.     Wrhy  build  bald  hell 

Of  blearing  black  of  thee  who  art  pure  light 

And  God's  eyes  are  thine  own! 

Thou  art  no  requiem  sob ;  thou  art  no  moan 

Of  thorn-pierced  grief! 

Thou  art  no  midnight  vigilant  sleepless  thief — 

[27] 


For  Sleep  hies  with  thee;  loveliest  harbinger 

Of  silvern  dreams  we  may  not  dream  here !  Myrrh 

Is  not  thy  cup,  and  ice  is  not  thy  touch. 

Not  thine  the  Master  Corsair's  boding  clutch — 

A  finger-print  of  goodness  is  thy  mark! 

Nor  have  I  seen  the  shroud  sail  of  that  bark 

Men  garnish  thee  therewith !  With  feathered  oar 

On  stilly  seas  I've  seen  thee.     Oft 

I've  followed  thee  beneath  the  orchard  croft 

And  watched  thee  read  the  script  of  blossom  lore. 

When  leaves  were  tenderest  green  and  apple's  pink 

Bound  Heaven  to  earth  in  long  bands  of  perfume ! 

Shrink,   friend,   from  thee?     Why,  Angel,   should 

shrink 
And  throw  about  thine  head  a  fold  of  gloom? 
Have  I  not  spied  thee  sporting  midst  the  bloom 
Of  May's  first  showing?    And  shall  I  close  a  tomb 
Of  that  but  is  the  Necessary  Womb 
Of  newer  Life's  seed  substance?  Nay!    Come  then 
And  let  us  count  the  true  shades  down  the  glen 
Mortals  call  Vale  of  Shadows !    Come 
When  corn  is  tasseled  and  the  glad  bees  hum 
With  honey  of  the  June! 
Lute  out  for  me  an  olden  ditty's  tune 
Of  Rosalind  or  mad-cap  Robin  Hood! 
Come  when  thou  wilt;  thy  coming  is  but  good 
And  thou  art  faery  Oberon  to  my  thought 
More  than  King  Angel ;  and  come  unsought 
Ere  life  doth  make  me  old ;  for  thou  art  young 
And  I  would  harken  to  thy  music's  tongue 
With  heart  child  joyful;  come  then,  Death 
For  Thou  art  Victory's  Kiss  and  Beauty's  Breath ! 

[28] 


GOOD  THOUGHT 

If  good  wine's  worth  drinking 

Then  good  thought's  worth  thinking— 

Or  better  no  thought  at  all ! 

For  poor  wine's  but  sour ; 

And  poor  thought's  ne'er  flower 

To  roses  worth  naming  Saint  Paul ! 


[29] 


THE  FINAL  JUDGMENT 

Elohim-sense  stripped  clean  of  flesh; 
The  kernel  of  the  soul  laid  bare ! 
Stuffs  niched  out  from  suppression's  mesh — 
Corporeal  in  the  keen-eyed  air! 
Each  sin  disrobed  of  life's  abuses — 
Each  virtue  weighed  exact  in  worth! 
Each  impulse  freed  from  gauze  abuses — 
The  whole  seized  from  the  cloy  of  earth ! 
Thank  God  a  God  is  Judge !    I'll  tell 
My  reasons  branded  reasonless! 
And  why,  what  seemed  a  lust  of  hell 
Flamed  out  a  fire  love  needs  must  bless ! 
My  voice  quick  stifled,  an  I  speak 
Herewards  to  men  my  rights  turned  wrongs ; 
I'll  shout  to  God,  how  strong,  why  weak 
I  trammeled  in  my  several  thongs ! 
Sin's  nucleus  glorified  in  truth — 
I'll  chant  with  God's  firm  clasp  of  hand — 
I'll  sort  the  grain  from  chaff  of  youth — 
And  thank  God,  God  will  understand ! 
So,  fear  the  Judgment?     Rather  fear 
The  stupid  law  of  man  below ; 
Loins  girt,  heart  singing,  I'll  appear 
Face  God,  tell  all,  and  God  will  know ! 


[30] 


THE  BIG  SMASH 

Till  the  Big  Smash  comes — 

The  man  is  a  brute ; 

An  insect  that  hums 

Mid  sweet  nectared  fruit 

Unfit  for  the  solitude  grandeured  by  thought. 

Weak  brawned  for  the  forges  where  iron  truths  are 

wrought. 
Small  troubles,  the  hare's  bite  the  parsley  amid; 
Soon  grown  o'er,  the  nibbling  by  pushing  shoots  hid, 
But   the   Big   Smash — a   foundering  mid   torture   of 

rocks — 
A  sob  to  the  heedless  that  life's  tournay  mocks. 
Then  after — the  silence:  the  healing  of  wounds; 
An  ear  harp  accord  to  the  wildering  of  sounds 
The  world  shrieks. 

An  eye  quick  to  rose  dust  of  tears  on  the  cheeks. 
The  heart  quivering  sharp  to  the  warmth  of  the  hand. 
The  lips'  press,  "Come,  comrade ;  I  too  understand !" 
And  the  man  born,  true  upright;  true  jointured  with 

Christ ; 
Who  clasped  Jew  and  Greek  in  the  brotherhood  tryst. 
When  the  Big  Smash  fails 
A  life  is  a  death! 
And  a  sad  Heaven  wails 
For  a  lost  gift  of  breath ! 


[31 


SECOND  FIDDLES 

Gray  heroes,  these;  the  drab  contralto  third 
Their  ash-hued  lot.     These  line  the  walks  of  life 
As  meek  medicinal  herbs :  the  second  wife 
Like  to  some  voiceless  hedge  contented  bird 
Who  weaves  her  nest  with  noiseless  tender  love 
Unpraised  and  patient;  such  a  Phoebe  she 
Who  becks  a  ghost  wife's  children  to  her  knee 
And  feels  affection's  hand  touch  'neath  a  glove- 
No  glow  of  true  warmth's  flesh;  the  maid  unwed 
Grown  old  in  sacrifice ;  the  man  whose  toil 
Sends  forth  a  brother  where  ambition's  moil 
Slakes  gold,  fit  crowned  for  him  in  proxy's  stead. 
Madonnas  who  give  forth  their  virile  Christs 
Then  humbly  shrinking  'neath  the  willow  shade; 
Second  fiddles ;  Magnificats  assayed 
That  Song  with  God  may  hold  its  glory  trysts ! 
Mid  Stradivari  of  earth's  violins 
The  silent  angels  mark  these  second  ones ; 
Not  theirs  the  strings  of  ribbon  lustrumed  suns 
But  theirs  the  hum  of  quiet  singing  linns. 
Praise  to  the  second  fiddle ;  should  he  fail 
The  first  must  fall  from  Music's  God  to  Baal ! 


[32] 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  MEETING  HOUSE 

Meeting  house — in  truth !  What  makes  the  Church — 
The  Psalm,  the  Sacred  Host,  the  Altar's  heart 
This  white  pile  lacks ;  and  yet  the  charm  is  here 
The    charm    New    England    holds  in    firm-clutched 

leash — 
Feared  to  let  slip,  and  show  the  dryad's  smile 
Beneath  the  frigid  virgin's  austere  frown! 
A  beauty  as  of  violets  found  in  clefts 
Of  frore  beard  rocks;  architecture?     None 
Of  Rheims  or  Cologne;  yet  the  thus-and-so 
Of  prim  hewn  walls  is  ice-bound  music  seemed — 
The  sombre  swell  of  gray  Georgian  chaunts — 
Or  Palestrina's  clef  of  treble  fauns 
Baptized  and  garbed  as  nuns !  Maple  luxuriance 
The  elm's  grace  vesture,  benediction  give 
Of  green  old  Pagan  nature — bless  her  soul — 
The  loved  untamed  barbarian!  "Vanity 
Is  Beauty's  face ;  and  Life  is  but  a  sweet 
We  needs  must  sour,  or  our  duty's  dead.' " 
Thus  preachers  droned ;  but  elm  and  maple  laughed 
And  tipped  and  lurched,  while  nasal  psalmody 
Arose  in  quavers  on  the  Sabbath  air 
And  shattered  'gainst  their  branches ;  meeting  house — 
Wilt  take  a  greeting  from  a  son  of  Rome — 
Thy  fearful  "Scarlet  Woman"?   Cross  and  cowl 
And  true  made  priest,  thy  lack — yet,  grim  browed 

friend 
I'll  whisper  thee  a  secret ;  she  will  know 
The  Juno  elm,  or  that  bold  Mercury 
The  gamboling  maple — that  iron  spine  you  boast 

[33] 


Of  holden  virtue,  is  the  jewel  of  Rome 
Poached  by  an  errant  child ;  so,  good  will,  friend — 
For  though  thou  champed  the  door  to  bar  her  out 
In  thy  duir  heart  our  great  Rome  entered  in ! 


[34] 


THE    PIPE 

You've  piped  to  me,  old  Death — 

Thrice,  with  voice  of  mouse's  squeak ! 

I  girt  in  haste,  with  saints  to  speak 

And  deemed  them  worth  a  puff  of  breath, 

The  whiff  of  feast,  that  counterfeit 

Of  you,  old  Death,  called  Life,  affords. 

I  culled  old  psalm  staves — Lord  of  Lords 

And  King  of  kings ;  the  room  was  lit 

With  Aves,  Venites,  Adestes — I  knew 

How  Christ  looked:  how  His  Mother  smiled, 

I  smelled  the  lilies,  saw  her  cloak  of  blue; 

Some  ante  chamber,  silence  tiled 

I  felt  was  built  for  me;  and  then 

You  scruffed  me  back,  you  piebald  god — 

A  sick  bed !  Moss  of  scragged  fen 

After  wide  rose  acres !     Untrod 

The  stepping  stones  of  unfamiliar  space; 

Now  that  I'm  back  to  number  and  place 

What  compensation  offered?    If  again  you  pipe 

Let  your  skull-sconce  certify  the  angels'  fruit  as  ripe! 


[351 


"OMNIA  MAJOREM  DEI  GLORIAM" 

Loyola,  hadst  thou  made  no  pledge  but  this 

Foremost  thy  station  mid  the  sons  of  God! 

This  chaplet;  'tis  the  Hebrew  singer's  rod 

Psychos  to  call  from  Panian  chrysalis ! 

But  this  the  slogan  of  those  supermen 

The  star-eyed  Jesuits,  cross-bowed  of  hate, 

Who  brushed  old  slumber  from  the  Sphinx  of  Fate 

And  sowed  the  lily  in  the  dragon's  den! 

Bruised,  spat  upon;  their  truths  distort  to  lies 

These  words  the  Rosary  of  their  every  breath! 

Thus  hewed  they  life,  ploughed  Beulah  fields  in  Heth 

'Neath  frore  of  bergs  and  carmined  southern  skies! 

Oft  have  I  marked  the  humble  spoil  of  stones 

The  sad  marcation  of  an  holy  fane; 

Where  spake  these  men  as  n'er  man  speaks  again — 

Ezekiels  mid  the  chaos  vale  of  bones! 

To  God's  great  glory;  Luther,  Calvin,  Knox 

Base  metals  'gainst  this  diamond  orthodox! 


[36] 


ALL  SAINTS'  SAY 

Saints  were  warriors — I'll  chew  on  that! 

And  most  of  them  warred  on  little  things; 

Little  wasps,  whose  petty  stings 

Wounds  of  mighty  pain  begat! 

And  they  didn't  fare  forth  with  broil  of  drums 

To  pompous  battles  with  swords  waved  high 

But  they  walked  where  life  turned  down  its  thumbs 

And  callously  bade  the  unfit  die. 

For  they  turned  dry  earth  into  fertile  sod 

Cried  "Nil  Desperandum"   from  Ichabod 

These  Saints  we  laud  today! 

And  we  have  their  blood,  and  we  have  their  might 

And  we  can't  twist  wrong  from  the  spoken  right 

For  their  truths  we  must  obey! 

And  we'll  burst  forth,  as  virgin  maids 

And  warrior  knights,  and  we'll  ply  God's  trades 

By  the  Christ  that  speaks  within! 

For  we'll  break  the  glebe  of  stubborn  sin 

As  strong-girt  Saints,  and  we'll  wreak  the  best 

From  untilled  soils,  and  doubts  confessed — 

That  they  may  know  who  fought  before 

We  still  have  the  stuff  to  fight  God's  war! 


[37] 


MIDNIGHT  IN  NEW  YORK 

Chance  sleeps  tonight  some  promise  of  a  child 
Foredoomed  by  Nature's  tooth,  rat-like  to  merge 
From  human  sewerage,  oozing  from  its  verge 
These  rodent  souls.     (How  matter  hath  defiled 
The  spirit  God  makes  pure!)     The  quiet  seems 
A  secret  hiss  of  unseen  cobras !    Lairs 
Of  fevered  wolves,  these  houses !    Glares 
A  snarl  of  moon;  here  sing  no  lyric  dreams 
Of  frond-tipped  fancy;  jaw-champed  faces  wear 
The  jungle  likeness;  here  slink  beasts,  not  men! 
Each  chance  abutt  the  jackal's  covert  den — 
Not  women,  she-dogs,  brazoned  in  despair 
This  sisterhood  immortal;  yet  outlines 
The  Christian's  Cross  against  the  pallid  sky 
Symbol  of  Him  who  asked  and  answered  "WHY?" 
The  question  failed  of  human-skilled  designs. 
Let  me  this  question  ask,  "How  much  is  sin 
What  loneliness,  what  heart-ache,  dearth  of  soul 
In  this  outpouring?    I'st  the  brain's  control 
Alone  that  breeds  the  lust  carked  deep  within 
Our  carven  loins  ?     But  God,  All  God,  doth  know 
And  God  is  patience,  born  eternally. 
But  weary  age  seems  Atlas  laid  on  me 
That  sacred  life  must  crawl  in  offal  so! 


[38] 


THE  DEATH  OF  OLD  GERMANY 

There  lives  a  land  whose  death  is  Sodom's  end 

Whose  name  shall  live  an  hissing,  a  reproach. 

But,  lived  on  land,  the  wide  world  hailed  as  friend — 

Passed  with  Kultur's  syphilis  encroach. 

A  land  whose  every  window  framed  a  light 

For  Him  the  Christ-Child  with  His  young  good  will ; 

(The  blue-eyed  tots  who  chattered  Christmas  night 

With  hearts  of  stone  soon  marshaled  forth  to  kill!) 

Sodden  with  drink,  scarlet  with  whorish  lust 

The  junglings  closed,  who  hailed  Saint  Nicholas. 

Sweet  sane  old  customs  spurred  heels  tramped  to  dust 

Song's  golden  store  lay  rent  where  demons  massed! 

Toll,  toll  the  bell !    She  welters,  smitten,  slain 

Our  fair  Rhine-maiden,  old  loved  Germany; 

From  whose  white  hands  and  balsam  learned  brain 

Dropped  purest  songs  of  holiest  minstrelsy ! 

All,  all  are  gone;  the  Minnesingers'  art 

Whose  wreath  empyrean  clasped  the  lore  of  Rome ! 

Lo  here  a  fiend,  'gainst  here  whose  matron  heart 

Taught  us  the  glory  of  the  earth-Heaven — home ! 

Wagner  is  perished,  Fafner  wrote  his  fate — 

Where  was  the  transport  of  the  Homeric  page 

Nought  scrawls  but  spittle  of  impotent  hate — 

True  manhood  shrivelled  to  the  spite  of  age ! 

Toll,  toll  the  Bell,  ye  towers  of  Cologne — 

Ring  out  your  tears !  Old  Germany  is  dead ! 

Where  grew  her  myrtles  new  tongues  shall  be  known — 

She  lives  a  curse — her  soul  forever  fled! 


[39] 


ENGLAND 

I  love  thee,  England !    English  is  my  name 

My  heart,  my  soul !    Brief  fifty  years  agone — 

He  saw  this  Newer  England,  he,  whose  blood 

Runs  in  these  veins,  and  English  blood,  God  praise ! 

My  sires  clustered  mid  the  pale  faced  hills 

Of  bard  begetting  Cheviot;  o'er  the  moors 

The  clefts  of  furze  capped  rocks,  the  minstrels  roamed 

When  Robin's  crown  was  not  of  dust  begat 

And  Alan  coaxed  his  songs  from  woodland  gods ! 

Loin  of  my  Loins,  in  these  few  latter  years 

Shall  I  lose  thought  of  thee,  my  fathers'  womb? 

This  Newer  England  is  thy  strong-limbed  child 

Stalwart  as  fits  her  mother's  natal  gift! 

And  now  my  heart  is  glad  with  that  old  joy 

My  kinsmen  felt  dead  generations  gone 

When  friend  laid  bare  his  falchion  that  his  friend 

Might  know  the  name  of  friendship  fervour's  heat 

No  mere  thin-silvered  gloss.     Two  Englands  move — 

Two  souls  made  one ;  mine  is  America 

By  right,  by  love;  and,  England,  thou  art  mine 

By  first  imperial  birth  of  ancestry — 

By  reason's  choice-nay,  were  thy  blood  not  mine 

I  still  would  crown  thee  time's  imperial  queen ! 

Thy  faults  be  those  of  gods;  thine  errors  mass 

More  pure  than  others'  virtues !  He,  the  knave 

On  this  our  western  shore,  who  bites  thy  heel 

Is  bastard  to  thee,  dastard  to  this  west 

That  shall  live  English  while  the  waters  roar — 

And  Nature  heralds  spring  in  bloss  of  green! 

Let  whine  the  peevish  dolt,  thy  soul  is  here 

[40] 


In  this  America !    Who  strikes  at  thee 

Strikes  her,  thy  strongest  daughter;  England,  live 

The  generous  mistress  of  the  circling  seas — 

And  with  thy  children  rule  the  listening  stars! 

And  we,  who  boast  thy  blood,  be  David's  sons 

The  line  most  royal  since  creation  shaped 

This  nebulous  substance  from  the  breath  of  God! 

Thank  God  for  England !    God  be  praised,  my  screed 

My  tribute  scroll,  I  write  in  English  words ! 


[41] 


POET  TO  WOMAN 

I  know  thee; 

From  the  dark  womb  of  my  thought 

Children  have  sprung,  veil-garbed  in  verse  and  rhyme. 

Like  thee  from  pain  and  travail  have  I  wrought 

Truth  substance,  hell  conceived,  in  God's  full  time. 

I  know  thee. 

Anguish  only  climbs  to  love 

As  thou  and  I  must  climb,  our  birth's  decree. 

Men  walk;  the  virgin's  wings  are  ours  to  hove 

By  black-starred  shores  of  ill-read  mystery. 

Friend,  I  have  woman  in  me ;  dreams  ne'er  screed 

By  form  of  man,  all  man;  and  I,  like  thee 

In  being's  fond  by  right  of  godhood  bleed; 

Creation's  Egg,  all  woman,  sheathes  in  me ! 


[42] 


LONDON  FOG 

A  writhing  witch,  with  tenuous  fluttering  arms — 

Her  yellow  locks  outstreaming  to  the  wind. 

She  breeds  an  hell-broth  with  her  nebulous  charms ; 

She  staggers ;  hair  a-twist — the  witch  is  blind ! 

Jointured  with  dying,  Madge  Wildfire  in  death — 

House,  palace,  street ;  on  each  her  f rore  is  laid. 

The  nightmare  ether  of  a  sickman's  breath — 

This  London  fog!    One  sun-lance,  lo,  crusade 

Of  Baldurs,  of  clear  invigorating  blue! 

A  fist  of  hours,  the  witch  is  fled  afar 

Her  half -soul  stirring  mid  the  thick  of  brew 

'Gainst  chance  of  visitation;  yet,  though  touch 

Of  her,  this  Hell- thing,  seems  the  Third  Sad  Fate — 

Yet  is  her  threat  a  shadow's  weakling  clutch ! 

A  chimera,  a  nothingness  of  fate. 

Below — lies  London!    Fogs  a-gone,  a-come 

No  whit  dismay  the  world's  most  blazoned  queen ; 

Nor  shall  a  monster  fog  with  scare  of  drum 

Affront  this  London's  grave  imperial  mien ! 

As  pass  these  harpy  wraiths,  so  came  to  pass 

A  war's  chimeric  hell-smoke;  London  stands 

A  rock  when  Berlins  melt  as  futile  glass — 

A  smiling  mother  to  the  English  lands ! 


[43] 


SIMPLICITY 

A  fervent  prayer;  soul  sick  of  war — 
Good  Lord,  give  us  simplicity! 
We  dree  our  weird — complexity — 
And  hence  our  plight ;  an  unhealed  sore 
We  needs  must  heal ;  let  us  return 
To  single-minded  Galilee ; 
The  truths  we  blur  as  platitudes 
Let  fall  by  Him  who  was  of  Thee. 
We've  hatched  the  dreadful  Loki  broods 
The  Midgard  snake ;  the  ice  of  Hel. 
We've  "reasoned,"  till  this  Egg  took  form 
Whose  monster  woke  this  horrent  mell. 
'Gainst  pastured  meads  we  chose  the  storm 
The  chaos  of  a  doubtful  skill. 
And  whence  our  boast  ?    The  end,  the  front 
Of  sophist's  wisdom — this — to  kill! 
Well  have  we  earned  this  devil's  brunt 
We,  things  of  paste-cheeked  luxury! 
Behold  in  sackcloth  we  repent — 
Kind  Lord,  give  us  simplicity ! 
Now  done  with  noise  of  armament 
Let  us  bruise  herbs  beside  Thy  brooks ; 
Again  read  Nature's  woodland  books — 
Dear  Lord,  give  us  simplicity! 


[44] 


WINTER  TWILIGHT  IN  PRAGUE 

Opal  steals  through  the  opaque  gray- 
Now  that  the  sad  day's  closing ;  black 
Of  the  night,  dusked  with  dim  purple  steals 
On  like  a  soft-shod  thief.     Blurred  lamps 
Stream  like  the  friendly  struggling  beams 
Of  far-off  lighthouses  through  the  mist 
Dank-deep  at  sea.     The  soul  feels  cold! 
Mysticism  sighs  in  the  air! 
Knife-sharp  welts  of  cold  alone  betray 
The  prod  of  winter's  iron  malignant  sting. 
But  else,  how  unrelated,  how  unreal 
Mid  life's  ambitions  is  this  somethingness 
Of  lineless  wavering,  soft,  yet  tangible 
Veiled  o'er  the  soul  ere  it  enwraps  the  flesh ! 
'Tis  like  the  half -waked  Slav ;  'tis  like  old  Prague 
Sleeping  hard  sleep ;  white-haired  from  centuries 
Of  hack-hewed  battles ;  wise  with  wisdom's  droop 
Of  eyes  fast  closed,  as  sight  had  served  its  worth ! 
'Tis  melancholia;  shuffling  footsteps  seem 
As  weak  half-ghosts,  who  feebly  would  essay 
The  angel  garments;  voiceless,  timid,  weak — 
Yet  wistful  of  eternities  undreamed. 
'Twixt  gray  of  day  and  night's  nun-veil  of  black 
Is  scarce  a  breath ;  but  in  that  breath  hath  passed 
As  a  soul  half -dead ;  so  tired  that  death's  advent 
Is  but  the  slipping  off  of  needless  shoon 
And  stealing  bare- foot  on  a  path  unknown 
To  vague  unwondered  nothingness ;  Truth,  this  is 
Nirvana's  foretaste ;  and  a  ghost  am  I 
Mid  ghosts  as  fellows,  dead  as  they  are  dead. 

[45] 


THESE  DAYS 

We've  nerves  these  days ! 

No  head,  no  heart,  no  soul — mere  nerves ! 

We  shriek  in  angles,  sneer  in  curves — 

We  writhe  in  Pandemonium  maze. 

We  each  are  blood  of  the  Gummidge  tribe. 

We  croak  like  frogs  in  a  stagnant  pool. 

We  may  be  gods,  but  we  ape  the  fool — 

We  stick  out  tongues ;  we  mouth  and  gibe 

Like  children  o'er  some  toffee  bit; 

And  yet,  God  knows,  there's  work  to  do ! 

But,  chip  on  shoulder  wild  hullabaloo — 

And  nineteen  ways  of  spittling  spit ! 

We  wage  on  beer  and  nicotine — 

We  seize  each  by  his  front  and  throat. 

God,  force  on  us  Thy  creosote — 

Pray  rub  our  souls  with  Nature's  green ! 

Or  else  we  perish,  Bander-Log — 

Unfit  to  walk  Thy  kindly  meads ! 

By  Christ's  Eternal  Heart  that  bleeds 

To  watch  us  grovel,  each  a  dog 

Chained  to  his  vomit — give  us  heads 

Cool  as  the  snows,  give  tempered  hearts! 

Look — selfish  greed  bestrides  our  marts 

And  hog  with  satyr  boldly  weds ! 

God,  save  our  nations,  lest  array 

Our  souls  lost  on  Thy  Judgment  Day ! 


[46] 


YOU  WHO  ARE  DEAD 

You're  not  gone ;  translated,  changed,  nor  decayed. 
You're  lying  there,  staring  through  six  feet  of  earth 
With  black  eyes  wink  full  of  Dickensesque  mirth 
And  grinning  at  life  as  a  game  well  outplayed ! 
And  I  see  you,  rogue  comrade,  stumbling  o'  nights 
O'er  Molly  prim  rose-bushes,  pooh-poohing  wreaths 
Mocking  each  ass  soul  that  wiggles  and  breathes 
Whilst  you  prowl  amidst  graves  and  their  trig-nancied 

sights ! 
Still,  there  are  stars,  and  a  moon,  random  whiles — 
And  you've  me,  silent  gypsy,  to  sing  to  your  soul ; 
Though  you  can't  toss  a  posset,  or  drain  a  deep  bowl 
You  can  feast  on  our  fellowship's  echo  of  smiles. 
For  we're  one.     If  you're  lonely,  just  conjure  up  me 
Your  trail-mate,  fast  bound  to  a  winter  of  days 
And  a  black  grief  that  chokes  me,  that  coils  close,  and 

stays 
Till  I  envy  you,  comrade,  ice-laid,  but  free ! 
For  you  can't  reckon  life  as  the  prism  I  know 
With  your  part  soul  gripped  fast  where  trails  all  must 

end. 
But  still  I  half  sense  you ;  and  praise  God,  leal  friend — 
You're  a  real  speaking  something — God  whispered  me 

so! 


[47] 


PATRIOTISM 

Perchance  'tis  well — a  sugared  snatch  of  song 

Profaned  of  music's  grand  intrinsic  worth; 

The  crude  half -thinker's  sway  of  rhythm's  mirth 

The  wildfire  thrill  born  of  the  dim-brained  throng  :- 

Perchance,  'tis  well ;  the  flag  thrown  to  the  wind — 

The  hand  spat  tribute  wrest  from  Moll  and  Jock — 

This — patriotism:  the  quick  galvanic  shock 

Harmonic  to  the  yokel  and  his  kind. 

The  mob  is  still  the  mob,  let  fall  the  cloak — 

The  pompous  nomen  of  esprit  de  corps. 

Now  Brutus,  now  Antonius  earns  its  roar — 

Christ  or  Barabas — crowned  the  last  who  spoke. 

Patriotism!     The  statesman  blenched  with  thought 

Lives  its  white  passion ;  the  evolvent  master  brain 

Stammers  its  terrors ;  mid  the  careless  train 

Ne'er  may  its  godhood  be  mid  blood-heat  wrought! 

Silence  its  travail ;  sapience,  its  fruit : 

Bruit  antipodes  its  birth-pains ;  where  it  broods 

Apoethosis  still  all  lesser  moods 

And  for  its  octave  seventh  grasps  are  mute! 

Patriotism!    For  me  'tis  most  akin 

To  that  most  awful  hush,  when  God  in  Host 

Descends  in  fulness  of  the  Holy  Ghost 

And  dwells  each  recess  of  my  soul  within ! 

A  truth  I  dare  not  limit ;  raising  me 

To  something  of  its  fixed  divinity ! 


[48] 


"GONE  WEST" 

He's  just  "Gone  West/' 

And  he  left  this  watchword — "Carry  on  I" 

There  was  blood  and  smirch ;  a  rose-pink  dawn 

And  a  Thing  left  dead;  but  what's  the  rest? 

Out  of  the  thing  a  soul  sprang  free — 

A  spirit  man,  six  foot  and  three! 

Spirit,  not  phantom,  in  God  clothes  dressed — 

With  brown  eyes  steadfast  to  the  west! 

And  it's  best. 

"Carry  on  !"    He  has  work  to  do — 

And  I,  his  mother,  I'll  "carry  on"  too — 

For  the  breeze  of  the  Blessed  Isles  blows  here 

I  feel  it;  I'll  not  damp  his  trail  with  a  tear 

For  the  Blessed  Isles  lie  west ! 

I'll  carry  on — an  American! 

For  I  bore  six  foot  of  allied  man 

Whose  clarioning  "Westward  ho !" 

The  ruled  out  west-path  I  can't  know 

But  God  and  the  stalwart  Christ  are  there 

And  Mother  Mary;  the  tang  of  air 

Blows  health  to  the  Allied  cause ! 

I  care  not  what  mete  theology's  laws 

He's  "gone  west" — 

Not  dead — my  night's  his  dawn — 

And  we've  both  the  watchword — "Carry  on!" 


[49] 


CHUCKED 

You're  chucked;  kicked  out  from  all  worth  while. 

Your  milestone's  passed  on  Heartbreak  Hill. 

You'll  learn  now — a  maiden  grief  can't  kill 

Or  a  first  thrust  rasp  a  sunrise  smile. 

Nor  yet  the  second,  nor  yet  the  third; 

You'll  find  the  rope  gripped  round  my  neck — 

The  rope  that  bites,  but  never  hangs — 

You'll  kiss  the  bark  with  hidden  fangs 

And  still  seek  fruit  sans  littlest  speck 

Look  at  me !  I've  been  chucked  and  chucked 

And  still  can  shrug  my  soul  and  laugh ! 

The  heart  wounds  leave  my  face  unscarred — 

I  still  dream  wheat  though  fed  on  chaff. 

You'll  head  gates  five-knife  points  barred 

As  I  and  others — rise,  well  plucked — 

Torn,  bruised  and  battered;  bleeding,  scarred — 

Yet  praying,  laughing!  Snibs  of  sun 

And  tastes  of  green  will  cry  you  on 

To  champ  once  more  from  Babylon 

And  play  Quixote !    Chucked  ?    Well  done ! 

Shake  hand  with  soul — your  wreath  ?    Well  plucked ! 

There's  God — His  place — there,  no  one's  chucked! 


[50] 


CONDOLENCE 

I  who  have  moaned  Tenehra  thrice  three  times — 
Have  looked  long  down  the  Valley  of  the  Shades; 
Say  thus  to  thee;  build  not  conjectured  climes 
From  ill- wrought  dreams  of  heavenly  palisades 
Where  lost  ones  chance  may  dwell;   God's  heart  is 

here — 
Here  in  the  humdrum  of  the  commonplace. 
In  box-hedged  gardens  lies  thy  salve  of  grace ; 
And  trivial  bits ;  the  fragrant  brew  of  tea — 
The  tropic  lustred  coffee;  homespun  toil — 
Life's  lettuce  leaves ;  iotas  fend  from  thee 
The  lead  of  snake  now  'gainst  thy  breast  a-coil. 
This  wear  thee  on  thy  bosom's  seeming  stone 
As  rosemary ;  Nature  is  one  with  God ; 
And  both  fain  heal  in  wholesome  monotone 
With  tasks  that  set  the  shivering  feet  a-plod 
Till  simple  duties,  angel  vigils  keep 
And  thou  dost  know  thy  dead  in  God  asleep ! 


[si 


AMERICA 

America ; — 

In  after  years,  the  pomp  of  fighting  done — 
The  keen  blade  rusted,  victories'  tale  hearth-spun — 
When  commerce  pinions  forth  in  peace  once  more 
And  grass  downs  breast  the  earth's  harass  of  war : 
Forget  not  those  who  thrilled  with  love  of  you 
Loathing  of  Mars,  but  praising  truth — as  true — 
Your  truth  and  England's — forget  not  those,  I  pray 
Who  sink  to  garrulous  life's  dull  after-day; 
One  socket  eyeless,  one  sleeve  less  its  arm — 
One  limb  oblation  to  the  dread  alarm 
Of  belching  hell ;  oh,  praise  is  theirs  in  truth 
While  yet  the  slaught  lives  on  in  echo's  youth ! 
While  glamour  glists  as  hero  each  who  fought 
And  eyes  droop  for  wonders  God  hath  wrought! 
But  when  the  glamour  fades,  and  plaudits  cool — 
Dub  not  the  hero  maimed  as  "tiresome  fool" — 
And  think  not  penny  pensions  meet  largesse 
For  those  who  doffed  the  clerkman's  harmless  dress 
And  donned  the  guise  that  beckoned  steel  and  shell 
And  made  of  life's  sweet  solstice  garnished  hell! 
Remember  these,  in  after  years,  I  pray — 
Do  not  as  Judas,  thy  liege  Christs  betray — 
America ! 


[52] 


KING  GEORGE 

No  widening  breach  therein ;  democracy 

Britannia  as  America  endowers. 

Full  sceptered  here  the  magisterial  powers — 

Fraternal  founded,  England's  royalty. 

The  crowned  Republic,  the  Republic  crowned; 

"What's  in  a  name?"    King  friend  of  Windsor,  hail! 

Iron  is  thine  English  staunch  armorial  mail — 

Long  live  thy  land  in  purple  worth  renowned ! 

A  king  here  domiciled?     Anomaly! 

England  in  plain  clothes?    Boorish  peasant  jest! 

Peace  guard  the  ways !    King  indeed  professed 

First  gentleman  of  England !    Honesty 

Heart's  praise  impels;  Victoria's  scion  thou — 

God  save  the  King  who  gave  thy  land  her  Queen ! 

While  spreads  the  loyal  oak  its  shoots  of  green 

The  monarch's  emblem  bind  the  Windsor's  brow ! 

Night's  death  blast  Hohenzollerns ;  autocrats 

All  breeds,  all  births ;  our  brothers'  love  is  thine ! 

The  goldenrod  and  English  rose  atwine 

Dower  alike  Time's  true  aristocrats ! 

Long  live  King  George !    America  we  sing — 

Our  under  rhythm  shouts  God  save  thee — King ! 


[53] 


INTERRUPTED 

His  laugh  was  interrupted ;  'twas  a  shell — 

Of  war  a  part — his  life's  synecdoche. 

Valhalla  from  a  bawdy  bit  of  hell- — 

He  left  his  laugh — the  greater  part — with  me! 

My  blood  flows  still  unspilled — I  feel  it  crime 

To  live  unscathed,  my  Damon  hurtled  "west." 

That  Falstaff  slice  of  laugh!     Some  future  time 

He'll  tell  me  why  his  sudden  flight  was  best! 

God  never  interrupts  us ;  past  a  doubt 

He'll  hold  that  laugh  for  me  and  laugh  it  out ! 


[54] 


DEATH  AND  DAWN 

Strange  and  terrible !  Terrible  and  strange ! 
That  gray  black  hour  before  the  Dawn's  pink  mist  ; 
Aurora's  steeds  steeped  forth  the  deeps  to  range 
On  Sleep's  invisible  mount  of  amythest — 
Men  creatures  ravel  out!     That  hush  of  time 
When  stillness  cuddles  earth  maternally — 
When  cherubs  scatter  banded  dreams  of  thyme 
That  Easter  hour — that  Death  should  canter  free 
His  grim  horse  Hecate  pale ;  and  snatch  in  souls 
By  gibbering  handfuls;  bird  feeds  piping  faint — 
Wood  dryads  fluttering  on  moss  satin  knolls — 
Then  to  thin  out  the  death-chant's  toneless  plaint! 
Life  wombed  anew ;  and  as  the  vestal  flush 
Blesses  the  world  in  hyacinthine  prayer — 
Death  tiptoes  out ;  hush  greets  in  passing,  Hush — 
A  two-fold  sigh  strings  on  the  violin  air ! 
Thus  Death  and  Dawn ;  a  queen  that  greets  a  king — 
Exchanged  in  passing  crown  and  signet-ring ! 


[551 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 

The  old  house  is  drugged  to  sleep 
By  some  narcotic  of  the  past. 
One  drowsing  window  wakes  to  peep 
At  ponderous  dray-carts  jumbling  fast 
O'er  sharp-voiced  pavestones;  dead  repose 
Of  human  history's  dropped  morphine. 
That  pile  some  lurid  story  knows — 
Some  dangled  skeleton  has  seen! 


[56] 


THE  LONE  CYPRESS  AT  MONTEREY 

Ages  it  watched  thus;  is  its  glance  malign 

Or  wearied  with  the  chance  moods  of  the  sea 

To  it,  one  mood.     Tide's  sweep  froth  of  line 

Dashing  exultant,  staving  minstrelsy 

Of  rack  and  death;  lamb's  touch  on  the  sward 

In  gentler  passions ;  both,  a  child's  intent 

To  this  lone  pterodactyl;  is  \  on  guard — 

Its  dim  eye  fearful  of  new  armament 

From  strange  blear  yellow  seas?    Or  doth  it  dream 

A  race  long  lost,  of  nobler  form?    It  sighs 

Chance,  for  a  child  long  since  a  man;  a  gleam 

Of  moon  translucence  gilds  it.     Dust-kissed  eyes 

Have  wondered  on  its  wonder;  eyes  to  come 

May  ponder  its  first  meaning;  its  old  youth. 

Shall  it  be  this  land  then?    Will  Fate's  turned  thumb 

Sluff  out  this  people,  spurned  remorse  and  ruth? 

Still  shall  the  cypress  gnarl  in  awkward  grace — 

Beholding  eyes — set  in  a  yellow  face? 


[57] 


GOD'S  ANTHOLOGY 

Ghastly !     The  poets  who  were  poets !     They 

All  died ;  do  any  live  ?     Thus,  he  and  he 

Wrote  sonnet,  ode  and  epic;  here  and  there 

A  woman's  thought  soared  as  a  meadow  lark. 

Great  song !  True  verse !  The  clock  struck  twelve  times 

twelve 
Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand,  strand  and  zone ! 
But  God — all  dead — all  vanished!    So  and  so 
Lived  such  a  place,  wrote  such  a  line — and  died ! 
If,  as  the  Scriptures  read,  God's  witnesses 
Dwell  ever  on  the  earth,  His  poets  must 
Be  incarnate  in  hidden  baby  forms; 
And,  in  their  passing  to  the  Fuller  Sound 
Give  poet's  eye  and  ear  to  some  mute  soul 
New  sprung  to  sense  of  being.     But,  the  past 
Shines  with  a  lustre  gathered  through  the  years — 
And  present  purpose  no  enchantment  has 
Because  its  nearness  dims  its  diamond  worth. 
Thus  in  the  Last  Recessional,  we  know 
Strains  will  be  heard  that  died  here  on  the  earth; 
And  every  impulse  of  the  poet's  soul 
Will  live  when  God  makes  His  Anthology ! 


[58] 


IN  FLORIDA 

When  Elman  played,  th'  applause,  made  hippocrene 

O'er  flowed  in  alabaster.     Soft,  his  bow 

Prayed  in  the  Ave  Maria ;  faith's  Nicene 

Glowed  lucent  in  the  slow  devotional  flow 

Of  strings  concorded  to  the  Merlian  rod. 

"Ave  Maria!"  'twas  the  cygnian  cry 

Of  those  who  love,  and  love,  alas,  to  die — 

Their  sins  by  Mar>^  born  as  pearls  to  God ! 

The  orange  tree  withdrew  its  bold  perfume 

Abashed  before  the  music's  natal  sighs. 

The  oleanders  oped  their  languid  eyes 

And  gazed,  trance  bounden,  through  the  foyer's  gloom. 

"Ave  Maria" ;  sudden  wailed  without 

A  shattered  fiddle's  meek  unconscious  hymn; 

A  tenuous  prayer,  through  Schubert's  interim 

Beseeching  them,  the  peacock  feathered  route. 

For  few  brief  pence,  the  fiddler  blind  and  old 

Shambled  in  rasps,  "When  you  and  I  were  young." 

Still  Elman's  bow  in  master  cadence  swung — 

Without,  within,  which  were  the  tone  of  gold 

To  Mary's  heart?     'Twas  Dives  at  the  gate 

Of  Lazarus;  who  scrolled  it — chance  or  Fate? 


[59] 


FROM  MY  DORMER  WINDOW 

Night  and  silence!    Cloudy  night,  no  stars; 
I  see  in  faint  outline  far-lying  roofs. 
I  hear  below  the  rush  of  noisy  cars, 
The  pound  of  horses  pelting  with  their  hoofs. 
Silence!     How  many  dying  while  I  stand 
Here  at  the  window?    Vice  and  sin  unloose 
Their  kennel's  breed;  this  hour's  shifting  sand 
May  chronicle  a  murder,  mark  abuse 
Of  mind  or  body.     Dimly  I  perceive 
Two  Crosses  rise  on  near-by  church.     I  know 
The  Christ  keeps  watch  and  mankind  must  believe 
He  welcomes  friend  and  pardons  blinded  foe. 
And  I  am  happy!    I  have  heard  the  voice 
Born  on  the  wire  of  my  beloved!    Night, 
Thou  hast  thy  sorrows,  but  I  must  rejoice — 
Thou  night,  art  blind,  but  I  have  spirit's  sight ! 
No  need  to  tell  my  love  to  him;  he  knows 
Without  the  telling;  so  I  send  my  prayer 
To  him.     In  silence  my  whole  being  goes — 
He  looks — he  knows — and  I  am  with  him  there! 


[60] 


RIPE  GRAPES 

Give  me  ripe  grapes !    The  leaves  may  fall, 
The  blight  of  autumn  brood  o'er  all. 
The  fruit  is  sweet — our  blood  is  red — 
Let's  live  the  heart  despite  the  head! 


[61] 


NUNC  DIMITTIS 

The  blare  of  battle  died  in  smoke  away; 

The  soldier  gasped ;  his  hand  strayed  to  his  beads. 

He  dying  with  the  sad  vermilian  day 

Shuddering  before  the  sight  of  Moloch  deeds 

Done  in  the  name  of  war;  his  fingers,  numb 

With  death's  antarctic,  told  the  Aves  ten — 

The  six  last  Paters ;  hands  fell :  voice  was  dumb 

But  eyes  beseeched — oh  to  behold  again 

The  Crucifix  worn  o'er  his  burnt-out  heart 

Star  of  his  faith,  alembic  of  his  soul ! 

A  sombre  Rabbai  mused  a  space  apart 

Tranced  by  the  guns  last  Pandemonium  roll. 

A  Judas  Maccabeus  of  his  race; 

An  exile  of  the  Babylonish  streams. 

The  Christ  he  knew  not  lit  his  eager  face — 

His  gaze  fixed  on  the  earth,  its  shell-made  seams. 

Sudden  his  eyes  the  war-claimed  soldier  swept ; 

In  pity's  moistened  flash  he  knelt  beside. 

The  Cross  on  death-dewed  lips  were  laid;  he  wept. 

The  soldier  smiled ;  his  eyes  spake  thanks ;  he  died. 

Nunc  Dimittis !    These  poor  unworthy  eyes 
Have  seen  creeds  merge  to  further  Paradise! 


[62] 


POST  BELLUM 

Now  'tis  ended; 

Why  had  it  to  be? 

Home  and  love  rended — 

Death-sown  the  sea. 

Doubt;  dark;  bewilderment;  ice  breaths  of  pain 

For  the  lone  dead  on  crimson  fields  lain. 

Crash,  dies  the  music !    Hiss,  die  the  lights ! 

Days,  webbed  with  memories ;  long  starless  nights 

When  cry  the  Rachels;  Marys  at  Cross 

Beat  milkless  breasts  for  the  wild  sense  of  loss. 

One  flare  of  pageant — then  moments  to  think — 

Marah,  not  Lethe,  in  deep  quaffs  to  drink. 

God,  the  All-Terrible,  why  was  it,  why? 

Thou,  who  art  Life,  what  sped  men  to  die? 

Beyond  and  above  is  the  Cause — Father — Thou! 

Still,  Thou  art  Love,  and  still  needs  we  bow 

Whispering,  hands  clasped,  "Thy  will  be  done" — 

Calvary,  the  Mother,  Calvary,  the  Son. 

Leal  fare  the  nations?     Perished  the  sword? 

Finite,  we  question  Thee,  Battles'  strong  Lord! 

Infinite  wonder — why  had  it  to  be? 

Thou  'twas  who  urged  us ;  Thine  the  decree ! 

Do  as  Thou  wilt  with  us ;  fain  must  we  weep — 

Scythes  of  destruction;  first  fruts  of  sleep 

Fix  us  Medusa-like;  this,  we  implore — 

Smite  us,  but  nevermore,  nevermore,  war! 

Now  'tis  ended — 

Why  had  it  to  be? 

Home  and  love  rended — 

But,  Father,  'twas  Thee ! 

[63] 


THE  FAUN 

The  Faun  is  the  Superman ! 

The  Man- Woman  Plato  prophesied — 

And  hopeless,  sighed 

While  prophesying. 

He  looked  forward :  vision  ran 

Outvieing 

Good  nature  sense,  that  roots  so  deep 

The  grass  may  not  find  it,  nor  long  womb  sleep 

Of  great  oak  embryos. 

The  Faun  alone  it  is,  who  knows 

The  Over-Soul  of  God; 

The  Lower- Soul  of  Man; 

The  Somewhat-Soul  of  Flowers  and  Beasts! 

The  acorn  in  the  sod, 

The  human  caravan, 

The  soul-pulse  in  the  four  foot  priests 

Of  Nature,  make  the  Christ! 

This,  in  old  tryst 

The  Faun  doth  know !    The  All- Soul  he— 

And  had  but  Plato  opened  vision's  history 

This  had  he  known. 

The  pointed  ears,  the  dancing  toe,  alone 

Bespeak  the  Superman. 

Christ  is  born  of  Pan; 

The  Trinity  in  wildwood  Unity; 

The  beast  culled  in  the  flower, 

The  hill's  rock  power 

In  the  babe's  smile — 

Mary  in  Ceres.     Some  new  mile 

In  man's  new  reckoning  shows  the  antique  Faun 

The  foremost  figure  in  the  world's  new  Dawn ! 

[64] 


EVENING  IN  A  HOSPITAL 

Evening  gloams;  ghost-mantled  with  snow 
But  few  brief  paces  distant-life  and  light. 
Street  lamps  moon  globed  with  kindly  fostering  glow- 
A  welcome  clatter  dins  the  friendly  night. 
And  here — a  bed,  a  window ;  two  gaunt  pines 
Caught  in  the  pane's  rectangle;  night  or  day — 
Here  life  snaps  links  with  life;  these  cribbed  fines 
Know  nought  of  man's  routine;  man's  holiday 
Is  still  the  world  of  physic,  glass  and  spoon — 
A  couch  where  'tis  to  drone,  half -wake,  half -sleep. 
The  stars,  the  dawn,  the  crowned  joy  of  noon — 
Are  nought  to  beats  the  pulses'  rhythm  keep. 
Here  life  is  steeped  in  Death,  and  Sleep  may  touch 
His  Elder  Brother's  hand,  and  share  his  cold. 
Here  joy  crawls  out,  impeded  by  a  crutch — 
And,  chained  to  sick-beds,  who  is  young,  who  old? 
Yet  no  inertia's  Limbo !    Strife  is  waged 
'Twixt  Love  and  Silence — Courage  and  Despair! 
Here  voiceless  fields  of  battle!    Here  the  gage 
Is  flung  each  sand-slip ;  here  resolve  in  prayer ! 
And  there  is  mystery ;  the  greater  mind 
In  throb  accordant  with  the  surgeon's  knife; 
The  lesser  mind,  in  mercy  deaf  and  blind 
To  agony  of  soul  arest  with  Life ! 
And  here  the  Great  Physician  ever  stands 
His  heart  a-brim  with  germinance  of  peace. 
His  is  the  healing  in  the  skilful  hands — 
Or  Life,  or  Death — from  Pain  He  yields  release! 


[65] 


THE  HOME  COMING 

With  the  laggard  sunset,  home  we  came ; 
We  entered;  one  purple  tinge  of  flame 
Enwrapped  us,  as  through  the  door  we  passed. 
April  rains,  and  buds  amassed 
On  the  wisteria,  sprawled  o'er  the  porch 
Set  afire  by  the  sun's  last  torch. 
We  entered;  we  spoke  not;  we  heard  the  sea 
Sighing  its  endless  litany — 
And  a  half  felt  sadness  dimmed  me;  sight 
Was  barred  me  of  its  monotone's  might. 
For  to  feel,  and  hear  e'en  taste  the  deep 
And  know  it  droned  through  the  hours  of  sleep — 
Yet  live  anear,  and  all  unseen 
Its  foamy  tracks  of  salt-flecked  green 
Seemed  like  the  rose  of  an  infant's  breath 
Sucked  on  milk  that  was  drawn  of  death. 
The  lights  were  glimmering;  and  what  my  fears 
For  the  bridal  night,  and  the  brood  of  years 
Stretching  in  endless  procession  away 
From  the  mileage-post  of  the  wedding-day 
I  could  not  tell ;  I  smelt  the  turf — 
And  felt  like  some  olden  riveted  serf 
Chained  to  her  master ;  and  yet,  had  I  turned 
Where  the  feeble  death  lights  of  sunset  burned 
To  ash  of  blackness — I  knew  my  feet 
Would  bear  me  back  from  the  prosing  street 
And  urge  me  straight  to  his  arms  again 
And  what  might  come  of  undreamed  pain ! 
His  arms  wound  round  me ;  the  thick  night  fell — 
Our  home ;  my  Heaven ! — yet  reached  through  hell ! 

[66] 


THE  GRAY  DAY 

The  day  slinks  out  like  a  gray  old  rat 

And  curls  in  the  wet  depths  of  the  sky. 

And  there  it  yawns :  like  curds  from  a  vat 

It  poaches  the  mist-bits,  drifting  by. 

And  whether  to  melt  in  a  sheet  of  rain 

Or  sulk  till  misnomered  sunset  strives 

To  piece  sun  honey  as  sweet  again — 

Where  the  day  bees  drip  in  their  dampened  hives,- 

I  know  not ;  'tis  a  day  for  a  "poet's  moode" 

To  pout  of  ivy  on  mouldy  walls ; 

And  sigh  for  the  graveyard  trench  as  good — 

And  moan  of  the  wind  to  the  mist  that  calls. 

And  dream  of  childhood's  vanished  joys, 

And  count  life's  pleasures  a  babbling  noise — 

And  life's  enhancements  as  broken  toys — 

And  men  of  valor  but  puling  boys ! 

But  what  of  the  day  and  its  rodent  face? 

A  mood's  not  a  permanency !     Sun  bees  will  hum 

And  a  day  burst  forth  with  a  moss  rose  grace ; 

And  inspirations  will  sprout,  and  come 

In  galaxies  ambrosial  rich ! 

And  the  autumn  leaves  clattering  in  the  ditch 

Will  be  over  gold  a  cloak  of  pitch — 

And  this  day  that  seems  a  drab  old  witch 

Will  be  a  faery  greenwood  light! 

So  drowse,  old  rat  of  a  day!    Your  coat 

Is  gray  as  doubt  and  cold  as  fear! 

But  one  day's  not  the  worth  of  a  year 

And  joy's  immortal!    For  her  no  bier 

[67] 


Of  back-thread  sighs !    So  your  nought  to  me 
For  I  live  and  I  love  for  Eternity ! 
And  the  sober  coat  of  a  gray  old  day 
Can't  filch  an  eternal  kingdom  away! 


The  End. 


[68] 


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